


Maybe Someday (Day One: Showers / Flowers)

by RhetoricFemme



Series: Scenic World AU [8]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: JMM, JeanMarcoMonth, M/M, Scenic World AU, Sweet, angsty fluff, establishing a relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 22:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15873111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhetoricFemme/pseuds/RhetoricFemme
Summary: Even when Marco and Jean can't yet put a traditional name on their relationship, the substance and dynamic remain the same.





	Maybe Someday (Day One: Showers / Flowers)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! My first contribution to this year's JMM is a side piece for the Scenic World, the chaptered fic that I started with last year's JMM!
> 
> While this oneshot is pretty self-explanatory, if you need to know anything for clarity, it's this:  
> 1\. As children, Reiner and Bertholt were adopted into Jean's family and are his brothers.  
> 2\. Marco and Reiner were college roommates, and all sorts of bonds started growing from there.  
> 3\. When this oneshot picks up, Jean and Marco have established feelings for one another, and are figuring out where to go from there.

The drive leading up to the Kirschstein family residence is not only lengthy, but obnoxiously winding. It’d be damn near cumbersome, particularly during Michigan winters, were it not for the fact it can guide from the main road, all the way up to the core of the property as easily as a coursing river.

It’s proven useful throughout the years for lighter fare, often coming in handy during the midnight dealings of growing boys, making tracks from one end of the property to the next. Just ask Connie Springer, Farlan Church, or any of the other band kids or soccer boys who’d visited so many years ago; senses and adrenaline running high while dodging other bodies and constantly on the search for the next good hiding place in absolute dark.

Marco has heard as much time and again. Has been importuned upon by Jean and his brothers to one day partake in a no-holds-barred, adult-strength game of hide and seek, whatever that means. For the most part, Marco is certain he’d be up for it, though at this juncture in life he can’t begin to imagine when such a game might come to be.

Heading up the drive at this very moment, Marco listens as Reiner, who is sitting in his front seat, laughs beneath his breath.

“What?”

Reiner just points, shakes his head. “Jeanbo’s out there chipping fuckin’ wood with his contacts in.”

Marco makes a side glance, and sure enough finds Jean enveloped in yard work, some twenty meters away, shoving sticks and branches into an almost absurdly large mulcher. The sun has begun to set, competing for the glow of the bonfire behind him.

Jean surely notices Marco’s car passing in front of him, though he doesn’t bother looking up. Marco doesn’t bother dwelling on whether this is deliberate on Jean’s behalf, or if he’s simply caught up in the task at hand.

“What’s he burning?”

“Probably just leaves. Maybe some plants or bushes that didn’t make it this year.” Reiner shrugs. “That’s always been his chore. I did the weeding and trim growing up. Bertie cleaned the pole barn. Jean burned yard things.”

It makes sense. It’s been years now that Marco’s associated Jean with what he’d always assumed was the scent of bonfire smoke. Ever since those off-the-cuff visits to see his brothers, presumably having already done yard work for his parents, first.

These days Jean doesn’t need to actually smell like fire and smoke for Marco to associate it with him. They’re the sort of elements that suit him best regardless, and so at least in Marco’s eyes, the sentiment remains.

Reiner enters the house first, calls out that Jean isn’t working smart, though he is working hard, and within seconds Susan Kirschstein is embracing him. She doesn’t hesitate to pull Marco toward her, and he appreciates how she doesn’t throw in side remarks about how after all these years Marco could stop by more often.

Instead, she’s telling him how glad she is that he came, because there’s a cherry cobbler for after dinner—fresh out of someone’s oven, though not hers—and she knows it’s not only Jean’s favorite, but Marco’s as well.

Marco has always been welcome here. _Here_ being not necessarily this house, per se, though that is true as well. But welcome in the spaces created by the Kirschstein family. He’s been experiencing it ever since the first time Jakob obnoxiously showed up in his and Reiner’s dorm room six years ago, collecting his two oldest sons for a dinner out while insisting Marco should come along, as well.

Jean has never been a contingency of this welcome atmosphere. Even now, as the two of them traipse upon a tightrope between whether they _are_ or _aren’t_ —a mood Susan Kirschstein has most certainly picked up on by now—Marco can feel that she is authentic in her affections.

Knowing this helps Marco segue from one end of the evening to the next; relaxed and settled beside Reiner, while listening to whatever anecdote Bertholt and their dad are onto when Jean finally comes in from outside. Jean’s covered in sweat and woodchips, a hand swiping in vain at his forehead as he mumbles something about taking a shower.

Jean is upstairs before anyone has an opportunity to respond, likely anxious to rid himself of the bodily cling that accompanies a full day of late autumn yardwork. Marco takes it as his cue to fix his face, square his shoulders and return to the conversation that is happening in front of him.

He tries.

More than an hour transpires, and Marco can still hear the soft flow of water rushing through pipes. Of course Jean is one of those people who would live in the shower.

Marco does his best to be patient. Knows he’d be wise to just wait things out, though in the end he purses his lips apologetically while excusing himself for the restroom.

There are six bedrooms, and nearly as many baths inside the Kirschstein household. Even so, no one feels the need to call Marco out when he walks past an empty restroom on his way toward the stairs. He knows his way around well enough, and if Marco is more comfortable using a second floor lavatory, well, that’s his prerogative and no one else’s.

Within seconds he’s standing outside the locked bathroom door. Marco would like to think that he knows what he’s doing when he decides to wait on the person inside, but there’s also a part of himself that realizes this might be asking for too much.

He bides his time considering all that’s transpired within the past year.

Everything that’s happened since summer.

The whirlwind of events and emotions that have defined so much more than just the past few weeks that they’ve all occurred in.

If nothing else, Marco has gained an understanding of how it feels to touch Jean. Knows now to describe the taste of Jean as somewhere between lines of musky and sweet, though Marco can’t help but wonder if that’s how he tastes everywhere.

He’s learned that for all Jean thinks of him, he will not allow himself to be taken for granted. Nor does Jean appreciate being tested; especially when he’s been so open in conveying how happy he would be to simply give.

Marco figured out ages ago what it feels like to be in love with Jean. Despite this new tension, Marco’s affection refuses to wane or grow dim.

Steam pours out of the bathroom when Jean finally opens the door; his hair standing on end and his face red. From the look of it, presumably from more than just the shower’s sting. The hazel of his eyes practically glows, and as Jean steps into the hallway he’s finally free to shove his glasses onto his face, however begrudging of them he may be.

Honestly, in his mind Marco hadn’t gotten this far. Jean waits for him to speak, getting little more than a shrug and, “Hey.”

The corner of Jean’s mouth quirks into a half-smile. “Reiner down there talking shit about me?”  
  
“Of course.” It’s enough to cause Marco to smile back. “Did you get woodchips in your eyes?”  
  
Jean answers over his shoulder, telling Marco he’s fine while walking toward his bedroom, as if he expects Marco to follow.

And he does, albeit stopping to lean on the door frame. Marco joins him, leaning against the opposite side of the threshold, staring down at where their feet align in the middle.

Marco sighs quietly, raises his eyes to find Jean’s. “How’re you?”

“M’fine. How’re you?”

It’s never been difficult between them. Even in the days where interaction was sparse at best, Marco always looked forward to Jean. Always counted on his presence being easy and comfortable. Not short. Not tense, like this.

“Okay. Leaving tonight to go up north for the week.”

Jean tries not to frown. It isn’t that he doesn’t want Marco to visit home, so much as he doesn’t want him to drive eight hours away while certain issues remain partially unresolved.

Marco forces a grin, and it’s enough to distract Jean from his thoughts. If only for the moment.

“You’re such a good son, Jean. Doing all that yardwork for your mom without being told.”

It earns Marco a scoff, and it’s almost enough to shield the shy grin that emerges in the light of Marco’s praise.

“Yeah, well. Susan’s at work all the time, and when she’s not there she’s studying for the bar exam.”

“Just accept the compliment, Jean.”

Gentle laughter ensues, their gazes fixing onto one another when Jean’s foot slips over top of Marco’s Neither one of them is in a hurry to move, and for a moment the space between them settles into comfortable silence.

For Marco, it’s both relief and a pleasant surprise when Jean decides to speak first.

“Doesn’t make sense to go up tonight.” Jean’s foot doesn’t move, though the light in his eyes takes on a depth Marco hasn’t seen in weeks. “Leave in the morning. Sleep here.”

Sighing in contemplation, Marco leans his head against the doorframe, lets his eyes slip closed.

“This isn’t the Old Dutch Colonial, Jean.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“There’s no falling asleep on the couch here.”

“I want to know you’re not driving all night on frozen roads with little to no sleep in you.”

Well, then. “I can take one of your parent’s guest rooms, Jean. Doesn’t mean I’ll be able to sleep.”

So obstinate.

For a moment Jean says nothing, but takes his time to study him. Unblinkingly meets Marco eye-for-eye, pretends not to indulge in that genuine, not-for-bosses-or-mothers, cocksure smile.

“’kay.” He chirps, standing straight and taking his foot away from Marco’s. “I’m getting some cobbler.”

It’s such a rush of assurance when Jean can hear Marco’s footsteps aren’t too far behind his own.

“Susan said that’s for after dinner.”

“Hurry up and I’ll bet we can have some of that, too.”

Around Susan and Jakob’s dinner table, the rule is that, “Six o’clock is dinner time,” and that stragglers will be left behind.

In true Kirschstein fashion, when Marco and Jean show up at 6:05, conversation is in full swing, and Reiner is trying his damnedest not to speak with his mouth full of food.

Both of them gape in disappointment upon realizing that all of the garlic bread is gone, only to have Susan hand them each an overly generous helping of spaghetti and the now elusive garlic bread. To Marco’s credit, and Bertholt and Reiner’s chagrin, table-wide complaints that the youngest is being spoiled are dutifully ignored.

Within seconds Marco and Jean have taken seats beside one another, decidedly tucking into their plates as a means to be near without having to speak to one another.

It isn’t too much, but for now it’s an okay place to start.

No one says a word when the two of them retire early on in the night. No one chides the way one man heads for the upstairs, with the other only a few paces behind.

Marco says nothing as Jean discards his shirt on the floor before crawling into his childhood bed, just as Jean stays silent when Marco takes up the space being offered before an old patchwork quilt falls over top both of them.

They stay this way for some time; one still body grooved into the other as evening whiles away. Time blesses them with the type of calm elicited by the subtle intimacy of breathing in sync with one another. Before long, Marco is certain that Jean, who now lays curled with his back into Marco’s chest, has fallen asleep.

 _Are they_ or _aren’t they_ , indeed.

Though half a day has gone by, Jean still carries the scent of bonfire smoke and a too-long shower across his body. It’s all Marco can do not to bury his nose in the nape of Jean’s neck, or to run his fingers through the unruly bed of hay that is Jean’s hair.

He can’t do these, his mind thinks, though somehow Marco finds reason to lay his lips to the bare skin of Jean’s shoulder. Leaves ghost kisses across vertebrae before moving to the join of Jean’s shoulder and neck.

He leaves tiny red blossoms in his wake, encouraged by the way Jean’s own breathing picks up, by the hand now resting on Marco’s thigh even if when it comes to words, both of them continue to say nothing at all.

Blood flowers brought to the surface of Jean’s skin, realized by an impulsive series of nips, licks and kisses, until Marco has managed to leave Jean with an entire bouquet.

Calm overtakes the two of them again at some point, though neither one could really say when. It’s enough for Jean, who fights with himself to stay awake until he’s certain Marco has finally dozed off.

It’s only after Jean hears the sweet, almost indulgent sigh heave its way up from Marco’s chest that he’s fully convinced Marco is no longer awake.

Jean falls asleep gradually; his bleary mind trying to commandeer several thoughts at once. While one part of his brain demands to know the logistics of the current situation, the more sentimental part of Jean soothes itself amid mutual affection and the influence of simultaneously taking care of someone, while also being looked after.

Either way, in the moment Jean doesn’t really care.

He’ll be more concerned in the morning, once Marco has already gone after leaving little more than love marks and future discussions to tide Jean over in his absence.

It isn’t much, but it’s an okay place to start. And if Jean has learned anything throughout the past several months, it’s that love often takes on an unconventional face. That oftentimes it exists without a known name.

And so he nestles in, allowing himself to drift off easy in silence, needing nothing more than Marco’s breath existing warm and consistent at the back of his neck.


End file.
